run, whirlwind, run
by alice in a coma
Summary: "So this is going to become a thing now, is it?" Lydia and Stiles team up to solve supernatural mysteries. Three-parter. Spoilers through 3x06.
1. Part I

Every night in her sleep, Lydia Martin dreams about running away.

Early on in high school, it's from ordinary things: her parents, school, Jackson, Beacon Hills, but towards the end of sophomore year, it's suddenly about running away from creatures that are trying to kill her. From Derek. From Peter.

She knows it's a metaphor for her life, but she doesn't really want to think about that.

...

It's a miracle that they even manage to put the fire out, and after it's done, they all sit, exhausted, back to back, outside of the motel just breathing for a full ten minutes before Allison finally says, "Okay, so there's no way we are going back into that motel."

"Agreed," Stiles says, and Lydia and Scott both nod their heads, too exhausted to process many words. "So where do we go? Just sleep out here all right?"

"No, you idiot," Lydia manages to mutter, rolling her eyes. "The bus."

"Ah, right," he says, pushing himself onto his feet and reaching over to give his best friend a hand.

It's not even ten minutes before Scott is onto the bus and out like a light, and Allison, refusing to let him out of her sight, curls up across the aisle from him and falls asleep shortly after. Relieved of best friend duties, Lydia exits the bus to where Stiles sits on the stairs, head in his hands. Cautiously, she sits down next to him. She isn't really very good at _feelings; _not her own, and especially not the kind that come from a person like Stiles, who feels far more than he would probably like. But something about the way he's hunched over - or maybe something in his voice, earlier, when he said the words "best friend" - make her want to comfort him now.

"You would really do anything for him, wouldn't you?" she says, finally. Stiles looks over at her, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Uh, yeah," he says. "I mean, he's my best friend. Wouldn't you do anything, for Allison, if you could?"

She considers this, studying his face; she's never noticed how clear his eyes are. "Yeah," she replies. "I guess I would." But the truth is, she doesn't think she'll ever really understand the kind of love that Stiles feels for Scott. It must be like having a sibling, maybe - or deeper, a soul mate.

Lydia isn't sure she has a soul mate. Or even a soul, for that matter.

"He'll be okay, Stiles," she promises, not breaking eye contact. She heard once that if you want to convince someone of a promise, eye contact is key, and this is a promise more vital to Stiles' being than probably anything else.

"I wish I could be so sure."

"He will," she insists.

"How can you know that?"

"Because he has you. And you'll never give up until he's all right," she explains simply. "As long as you're around, he'll be okay."

She wants to bite her tongue off as soon as the words are out of her mouth. If there was ever a way to damn someone, that's it.

...

"So this is going to become a thing now, is it?" she says as she answers the phone. It's a Wednesday night, and she's got a history test the next day, but she'd much rather be out battling the supernatural any day, which is exactly why she still answers the phone, even when she notices it's Stiles.

He stutters on the other end of the line, and she pretends that it doesn't make her smile just a little bit. "I - uh, what? What thing?"

"You, dragging me out of bed at ungodly hours to explore whatever half-baked theory you've most recently come up with?" she prompts, tossing her history book aside and lying back on her bed. If any other words were coming out of her mouth, this could be the witty banter of a teen comedy or - _oh god _- a romcom. As it is, it's just her life instead.

"Well, I mean, it's - it's hardly an _ungodly _hour, Lydia. It's only nine o'clock, and - would you just come outside, please?"

"What?" Tossing herself from the bed, she whips back the curtain of her bedroom window and looks down upon Stiles, who is leaning against the hood of his car, gazing up at her. He offers a slight wave that she does not return. "Stiles, you're outside my _house_? You know, some people would qualify this as stalking."

"Oh, come on, Lydia. I'm not stalking you. I need your help."

"Druid stuff?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, I need to go shoe shopping and I wanted your opinion - obviously, Druid stuff!"

"Well, I just wanted to be sure! You _could _have wanted shoe advice," she says as she searches for her own shoes. Under her breath, she mutters, "You sure do need it."

"Hey! I heard that! Ugh, just get down here, will you?" Stiles huffs.

"I'm coming, calm down! A-ha!" Pulling her other shoe from under her desk, she slips them on, grabs her purse, and rushes down the stars. Stiles is still leaning against the hood of his car when she appears outside.

"Hi," she says, suddenly and inexplicably self-conscious. The last time they were truly alone together was on the bus, and Lydia isn't sure exactly how much ground they covered in that last interaction, but she's pretty sure there's no going back at this point.

"Hi," he replies. "So shall we - ?"

"Why me?" she demands suddenly, causing Stiles to pause in his walk toward the driver's side door.

"Uh, I'm sorry, what?"

"Why did you call me? Why do you keep calling me?" She takes a step forward. "Why not Scott? Is it just because you want to keep an eye on me and all my...supernatural weirdness?"

"Uh, no!" Stiles insists, taking a step toward her around the hood of the car. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "It's just - Scott, he's got enough on his plate, with, you know, the werewolves and the whole almost committing suicide thing, and, well, besides - no offense to Scott, I mean I love the guy, but you're smarter than him any day. Smarter than most everyone, actually."

His eyes are wide and honest when he looks at her, and Lydia is oddly touched.

"True," she replies snappily, not wanting this moment to become laced with too much feeling. Moving to the car and opening the passenger door, she adds quickly, "But - you're not so dumb yourself."

Stiles' grin is big enough to make her a little nervous. Not that anything about Stiles makes her nervous. Ever. "Lydia, did you just give me a compliment?"

"Not if you keep grinning like that!" she snaps. "Now get it the car and drive, Stilinski!"

"Yes, ma'am," Stiles answers, chuckling.

"And don't call me 'ma'am'!"

"Yes, uh...dear."

"_Dear_?"

"I'll just drive now."

...

Their supernatural investigations soon turn into tri-weekly escapades that sometimes end in blood and mystery and other nights end in ice cream. At first, the ice cream is begrudging on Lydia's part because spending time with a social pariah like Stiles is more than somewhat damning to her image, but somehow, after about the fourth night of this, she can't decide which she likes more: the running or the ice cream or the way Stiles runs a hand through his hair when he's nervous.

_No, _she thinks. _You don't care about that, Martin. You will _not _develop feelings for Stiles, p__hysical or otherwise. _

She won't, she promises herself. This is a partnership, that's all. Not even a friendship.

The first time he calls her just to get ice cream, she declines with a huffy, "As if," but she has no doubts he'll ask again. She knows how persistent he can be.

She's sort of counting on it.

...

"So what's going on with you and Stiles?" asks Allison one day at lunch. Lydia drops her spoon at the bluntness of the question and blushes at her clumsiness. Since when is she clumsy?

"What? Nothing," she insists. "Nothing's going on."

"Really," says Allison, nonplussed. "You two spend an awful lot of time together."

"We're just doing research," Lydia assures her, returning to her yoghurt. "Stiles is the only one with an IQ anywhere _close _to comparable to mine, which makes him somewhat useful in trying to figure out all of this Druid stuff, that's all."

"Sure... So I guess I can tell Amy Miller that he's free as a bird, right? Apparently she's interested."

Lydia shrugs. "I guess so. It's none of my business."

Allison shakes her head. Lydia sets aside her yoghurt; she's suddenly not hungry anymore.

...

Hooking up with Aidan comes to serve a dual purpose.

On the one hand, he is a stunning specimen of a human being, and Lydia has made it her mission in life to closely study all such men. It doesn't hurt that he's a great kisser either, even if every word that comes out of his mouth is idiotic.

On the other hand, and this is really the important part, she has a plan. If she can get close to one of the Alphas, there's sure to be a situation in which she can use it to best aid Scott, Isaac, and Derek, especially if she continues to plead ignorance about the whole werewolf thing altogether.

She doesn't tell Stiles about it, though. She doesn't really want to deal with the hurt she knows she'll find in his eyes when he finds out.

...

They expect everything to go to shit on Halloween. It only makes sense that creatures of the night would come out to play on a holiday dedicated to them, but, by some benevolent force of nature, absolutely nothing supernatural whatsoever occurs. Instead, it's a blissfully normal teenage night in Beacon Hills, and everyone who's anyone flocks to Lydia's house for her annual Halloween party. She's dressed as Daphne, her outfit a near-perfect match to the cartoon. Allison, dressed as Katniss (bow in hand, just in case of an attack), sticks by her side and helps serve drinks to guests as they enter the house.

Stiles and Scott appear early on in the evening. Lydia sees Allison's face as Scott walks through the door, and that's when she's sure that there will never be anyone else for her best friend.

While Allison and Scott go off to talk or _whatever _it is they do when they're alone that supposedly _definitely isn't making out, _Stiles joins Lydia in her hostess duties.

"Daphne," he acknowledges, taking in her outfit. "Nice choice. Very fitting given the…rather bizarre turn our high school careers have taken."

Lydia grins and hands him a platter of drinks. A year ago, she would have hated this, would have tried her best not to even let Stiles into her party, but if she's honest with herself now, Stiles is probably the greatest friend she's ever had. Not her best friend, by any means, but she's never doubted that Stiles will always coming running whenever she needs him. She needs someone like that in her life. Not that she would ever say that – ever – to him or anyone.

She surveys him once up and down, noting his lack of costume. "And you're supposed to be?"

"Ah," he says, lifting up the front of his shirt to reveal a Spider-Man suit underneath.

"Spider-Man?" she asks, quirking a brow.

"Peter Parker," he supplies, shrugging. "I figured, since I'm usually just the one along for the ride, I could be the hero tonight. Scott, of course, refused to dress as Mary Jane, so we know what a horrible best friend _he _is. "

Lydia smiles a little sadly. "You're not just along for the ride, Stiles," she says quietly but firmly.

He's taken aback at this. "Uh, I - what?"

"You're just as much of a hero as Scott, you know."

Stiles chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "I'd say that's a bit of an overstatement."

Lydia frowns at him. "Heroes come in all shapes and sizes," she reminds him as she fills more drinks. "Scott might be the brawn, but you're definitely the brains of this whole operation."

"What does that make you?"

"Me? I'm the looks. And the fashion sense," she adds, surveying Stiles' wardrobe once again. She pauses thoughtfully. "I'm...Daphne." He laughs, looking at her in that way she tries not to notice, like there's no one else in the world worth seeing at all.

"Lydia, do you want to dance?" he asks. It's so smooth, so straightforward, and he's not even scared, not one bit, and Lydia hates him for that because suddenly her knees feel like jello and she isn't really quite sure that she remembers _how _one even goes _about _dancing and -

"Yes," she says before she can even think.

Stiles is surprised. "Really? O-okay. Uh, cool. Well..." He leads her out onto the patio where the dancing is taking place and suddenly they're spinning to the music and laughing, and Lydia can't really help herself, she enjoys it. She _enjoys _Stiles, in ways she didn't imagine it was possible to enjoy another person.

"You know," says Stiles in her ear, his voice elevated just slightly over the heavy bass of a new song, "people might think you're Daphne…" Lydia looks at him, curious. His eyes, when she meets them, are almost too sincere. "…but, underneath all of this, I know you're really Velma. With, y'know, that – that impressive brain."

Lydia doesn't know what to say.

_I want to kiss him, _she thinks and instantly curls in on herself.

It's something she's felt before, this flutter in her chest that threatens to spill out of her, but never acknowledged. Because she can't. She can't kiss Stiles; hell, she can't _want _to kiss Stiles. It would be the last straw in her already dwindling social image and, more than that, it would be too much. Too easy. Too _everything. _She's never known a boy quite like Stiles Stilinski, and she doesn't think she would survive the heartbreak that would inevitably come when she lost him.

And she's going to lose him. In such a fleeting existence - one plagued by murder and werewolves and nightmares - how can she keep him?

She pushes away ever-so slightly. "I - need to go check on Allison," she says, practically running away from him.

"Lydia - " he calls after her.

She doesn't look back.

* * *

end part one


	2. Part II

The same dream haunts her for a week: she races, haphazard, through a forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees, lighting her way. A piercing scream directs her attention to somewhere westward. Racing toward the sound, she practically stumbles into a manic Mr. Harris who, mid-scream, is met with untimely death in the form of strangulation against a tree.

At first, it is merely a dream, just a horrifying nightmare brought on by the investigation she's been doing with Stiles, but then one morning, she wakes up with dirt covering her hands and feet, and a mere dream it can no longer be, no matter how hard she scrubs away the evidence.

"Are you sure this is even the right part of the forest?" Stiles sighs, exasperated, as she leads him around the next afternoon. He's been complaining since she high-jacked him that afternoon, but she's begun to think it has less to do with missing cross country practice, and everything to do with his fervent hope that she has nothing to do with the sacrifices.

Of course, Lydia hopes that too, so she just chooses not to think about what it means if she has, in fact, been killing people unwittingly.

"Lydia -" Stiles tries again, moving forward, to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hush!" she hisses, slapping his hand away to concentrate on the sounds of the forest around her.

A piercing cry echoes faintly around them, to the west, just like the one in the dream. Lydia grabs Stiles' hand, still suspended in mid-motion, and pulls him closer.

"Did you hear that?" she demands in a furious whisper.

Stiles swallows nervously at the closeness of their proximity. "Uh, no?" he whispers back. "What, uh, what'd you hear?"

"A scream," she murmurs, creeping toward the sound as it echoes again. She tugs Stiles along behind her, admittedly a little grateful for the comfort of his presence. "Like the one in the dream, but...fainter. I - " Another scream, louder this time. "This way!"

Clasping tightly to his hand, she drags him after her as she races through the trees, the screams getting louder as they approach -

"Oh god," she breathes as they clear a few trees and find themselves faced with a very-dead Mr. Harris, killed in much the same manner as the other sacrifices. He's obviously been here for more than a few days, probably since his disappearance from the school.

Letting go of Lydia's hand, Stiles takes a step forward to get a closer look at their - former - teach, bringing on a wave of nausea, and he bends over, putting a hand up to cover his mouth. "He's so dead."

"Yes, thank you, I can see that, Stiles," Lydia snaps, though it's not as harsh as usual. The sight of Mr. Harris' corpse, so exactly as she saw it in her dream, is enough to terrify at least a little bit of the meanness out of her. "Oh god," she says again, turning away and passing a hand over her eyes. "So it's the druid."

"As we expected," Stiles replies in agreement.

"What do we do?"

"I should call my dad," he decides, pulling out his phone to dial his father's number, but Lydia stops him with a hand on his arm.

"What if," she asks, her eyes big with fear. "Stiles, what if I did this? What if it's been me the whole time?"

"It's not you, Lydia," he assures her, putting a hand over hers in comfort. "I mean that. Even if it's, I don't know, something _inside_ of you, this isn't _you, _okay?"

Lydia takes her hand back, nodding, and curls her arms around her middle. Days like these, she wishes she could go back to before - back to Jackson, back to shoes and formals and the facade of unawareness she used to wear so well. She'd like to go back to sleep, for a while, to forget all she now knows about the world.

When Mr. Stilinski shows up, it's with questions, questions, questions, and her head is spinning too quickly to think, so she lets Stiles answer them. _Poor Stiles, _she thinks briefly, _everyone always depends on you for everything. _In the end, she and Stiles are sent home with a strict warning to, "for god's sake, stay at least _in town _for the rest of the evening."

They escape with haste.

...

The fall formal is upon them before they even have time to blink, and for once in her life, Lydia doesn't have a date - along with six potential back-ups - because Jackson's in London, and because, quite frankly, _no one's asked her. _Not one single boy. She wonders, not for the first time in the past year, where all her friends went. Then again, she thinks, maybe she never had any. Not really.

It's also odd, she thinks, that Stiles has yet to ask her. She might be in denial about the level of affection he feels for her, but, in any case, they do spend most of their waking hours together. Plus, Allison and Scott are going together, even if it's as "just friends" (and Lydia highly doubts that will last the night). It's only logical that they go to formal together.

She assures herself that it's only a matter of time before he works up his nerve, but three days before the dance, he still hasn't posed the question, which is why, when he leans against the locker next to hers and starts in on the odd phone call the police station got last night, she slams her locker shut and, quirking a very stern eyebrow, demands, "Stiles, why haven't you asked me to formal yet? What are you waiting for, the apocalypse?"

Stiles cuts off mid-sentence, his jaw slack for a moment before he stutters, "I, uh, w-what? What did you just say?"

Lydia rolls her eyes and huffs out a sigh. "You aren't stupid, Stiles, and as far as I know, you aren't deaf. Now answer the question."

Suddenly, his expression turns pained, almost apologetic. He runs a hand through his hair, and Lydia's stomach drops. "Actually, uh, I kinda already...asked someone else."

The answer is unexpected, yes, but what's worse is the way her stomach twists, the flush to her face, the way she wants to be anywhere but here. And worst of all: the way she can't determine whether this feeling is one of humiliation or jealousy. Since when does she get jealous over Stiles?

"Oh," she says, wanting so desperately to recover, to brush it off like the big deal it totally isn't. "Wh-who?" She clears her throat. "Who is it?"

"Amy Miller," Stiles offers sheepishly. "Allison told me she might be, uh, interested, and I just kinda figured you were going with Aiden, so..."

Lydia feels all the blood drain out of her cheeks as she hears this last bit of information.

"Yeah," Stiles says, his tone suddenly a little biting. "I heard you guys were, you know, a thing or whatever, and that's really fucking stupid, you know." He lowers his voice, glancing around. "I mean, what are you thinking, Lydia? He's an Alpha. You know that, and you know that by now, he has to know that you know."

Lydia glares at him, blushing violently. "Keep your nose out of my romantic affairs, Stilinski. I didn't ask for you input." Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she makes a beeline down the hall and to her next class.

"Lydia!" he calls after her.

"Have fun with Amy Miller!" she sends back, not bothering to turn around.

After all, she's Lydia Martin; she practically owns this school. And Stiles Stilinski? He's no better than the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

...

_Come on, Eileen, oh, well he means / at this moment, you mean everything..._

The music pumps out over the speakers of the gymnasium as Lydia leans back in her chair at the outskirts of the dance floor. Aiden leans idly in the seat next to her, bobbing his head to the music. From their specially-chosen seats, she can easily survey the action of the entire evening - and by that, of course, she means Scott and Allison, currently spinning freely to the music, and most definitely _not _Stiles and Amy Miller, who look sickening adorable in their matching purple accents.

Aiden glances at her. "Wanna dance?" he asks casually.

Lydia lets out a humorless laugh that sounds more like a sigh, and rolls her eyes. "Ummmm - no."

Aiden shrugs nonchalantly. "Okay then." He stands, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm gonna go get some punch."

"You do that," she mutters, and then she is alone. She isn't really alone much, these days, which is odd considering how few friends she can count amongst her company. She spares another glance towards Stiles, and quickly looks away, rubbing a hand to her temple.

Another song passes and suddenly Lydia is jerked out of her musing by someone leaning over her table and saying, loudly enough to be heard over the music, "Lydia? Why are you sitting here all by yourself?"

She looks up into the eyes of Stiles, who, damn him, looks at least somewhat genuinely concerned.

"Where's Aiden?" he asks. She rolls her eyes half-heartedly, shrugging and looking away.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to your date?"

He shrugs. "Her best friend was having some...freak out, and I thought maybe it was best if I let her handle it."

"Huh. Fascinating."

He sighs, grinning a little. "Do you wanna dance?" he asks.

She laughs at him. "As if. Why, exactly, would I want to dance with you? You're like King Midas, you know, except that instead of gold, everything you touch turns to _loser_."

At one time, this insult might have actually hurt his feelings, but, as it is, now he merely crosses his arms and says, "Aren't we passed that yet? I'd really thought we'd gotten passed the whole you hating my guts thing." He takes a step around the table, holding out his hand to her. "Come on, dance with me."

She glances down at the hand, then back up at him, bored. "We've played this game before, Stiles."

"Yeah, and if I remember correctly, I won, so come on. Dance with me."

She wants to argue more, wants the tension to increase enough to let her walk away from this, whatever it is, partnership, friendship, without feeling like she's lost something. Because, really, what does she lose if she loses Stiles? A mediocre friendship based upon the investigation of the supernatural? She's pretty sure her life was infinitely less complicated and more enjoyable before all of _that _became such a major player in her extracurricular activities.

But her mouth tastes like metal as soon as she lets that thought pass through her brain, and she knows what a big lie it really is.

"Why are you always so nice to me?" she asks, searching Stiles' face for the answer to a question she hasn't yet formulated.

"Because sometimes I think you need it," he answers gently, offering up his hand once again, and she accepts, following him out onto the dance floor.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he says as he spins her around. She does not blush.

"I know," she says, grinning. Aiden and Amy lay forgotten, at least for a little while.

...

"Called it," Lydia says, lying on her bed after the dance, having just heard Allison's confession that she and Scott made out in his car before heading out to get ice cream with everyone else post-formal.

Allison rolls her eyes. "You did not call it."

"Uh, yes. I did. And so, by the way, did everyone else in the tri-state area. I mean, come on, Allison, you just don't go to a dance with your ex and not have something major happen. Either you were going to kill each other or suck face - much as I detest that term - and you chose to suck face. Congrats."

Allison grins, shaking her head. "Well, thanks for all of your support, bestie."

Lydia smiles genuinely, bumping her shoulder against her best friend's. "You know, I mean it. If you're happy, I'm happy. And Scott is...well, a much better person than I ever realized." She frowns. "I seem to be realizing that a lot these days."

"Uh-oh, is this going to turn into a conversation about you and Stiles?" Allison asks, rolling over onto her stomach. Lydia glares at her.

"No because there _is _no 'me and Stiles,'" she replies.

"Really."

"Yep."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit."

Allison sighs heavily, flopping onto her back. "Whatever you say, Lydia, but I think you're an idiot."

Lydia isn't so sure she entirely disagrees.

...

"_Drive faster_!"

"_I'm trying_!"

"_Well, clearly not hard enough_!"

"_Next time, _you_ try driving while we're being chased by **werewolves**!" _

_"Look out!"_

Lydia hangs a sharp left to avoid hitting the side of a building as she slams her foot back onto the accelerator. When Stiles had hopped into her car to explore the site of what they thought was a kidnapping by the druid, she hadn't expected their evening to end in a car chase with werewolves close on their tails. Who knew werewolves even owned cars?

She slams on the breaks when she realizes they've reached a dead end. Stiles groans in terror.

"Oh god, we are dead. We are beyond dead."

"Shut up, Stiles! Let me think." She glances around in desperation, but she knows the only way out is forward or backward. In front of them is a building with a single glass window that, by some stroke of divine providence, might actually be big enough to fit her car. Taking a deep breath, she puts both hands on the steering wheel and says, "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"If we don't make it out of this - "

"Oh my god, don't say things like that!"

" - I just want to say..." She looks him directly in the eye. "Thank you."

Before he can even respond, she's hit the accelerator once again and they're through the window, alive, and the Alphas are stuck outside the building, their car too large to make it through the window. Just as they begin to get out of the car to chase them down, sirens sound around the corner, and they all scatter, unwilling to face the cops for a pair of nosy teenagers.

Lydia and Stiles both release the breaths they've been holding and Lydia, nearly sobbing from relief, undoes her seat belt at lightning speed, launching herself over to the passenger's side and into Stiles' arms. He embraces her back with equal fervor, happy - overjoyed, really - to even be alive. He pulls away before she's really prepared, but she lets him. The cops will be upon them any moment and they need to get their story straight and -

And suddenly, he's kissing her, desperately, like it's more vital than anything else he's ever done in his entire life.

She pushes him away, however gently. "What are you doing?" she asks, stunned. He just looks at her, equally thrown. "Why did you do that?"

"I - " he falters and she escapes from his embrace, throwing open the car door and clambering out rather ungracefully. Her legs feeling like jello, again, but this time it's from the adrenalin rush and not the way his eyes sparkle when he has a secret.

Stiles is out and coming around the car towards her faster than she can comprehend.

"Lydia, I - "

"No, it's really fine. Heat of the moment. It's fine." She's going to faint, she thinks, but she stays standing, eyes trained on his.

Stiles looks a little hurt. "Is that what you really want?" he asks. "What you really want to be true? You want to pretend that everything that's been going on between us is a lie?"

Lydia takes a deep breath. "It _is _a lie, Stiles, because there is _nothing going on. _We're partners. Friends. That's - that's all."

He shakes his head, persistent as only he knows how to be. "Maybe for you it is, but, god, Lydia, you want to know the truth? I love you. I'm in love with you."

"No!" Lydia snaps. "No, you're not. We just had a near-death experience, and _that _is what you are feeling right now. Stop shaking your head!"

The cops have arrived by now, headed by a murderous Sheriff Stilinski. He marches straight towards the pair of them, but it does not cease their argument.

"Why is this so hard for you to accept? I know you have feelings for me too!" Stiles is saying, angrily, as his father approaches. "I mean, come on! You're trying to tell me that you weren't just a little bit jealous that I asked Amy to the dance and not you?"

"Stiles, please -"

"Why can't you just admit to it? Would it really be that _horrible _to have feelings for someone like me? Really?"

"Yes!" Lydia spits in his face, tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks, but she holds it in. "Yes, it would." She takes a deep breath and continues calmly, "But it doesn't matter, anyway, because I don't have feelings for you, and I never will."

At this point, the Sheriff has halted a few feet away, watching the exchange between them with concern, his eyes lingering on the way his son's shoulders suddenly slump and how he wipes his arm across his eyes before turning toward his father.

"Are you two okay?" he asks, glancing between.

Lydia nods. "We're fine," she says curtly, trying to taking a step forward. "Though I think I might have a concussion." As she tries to move forward, her head spins again, causing her to nearly trip. Stiles catches her before she can make it very close to the ground, though, and Lydia hates herself a little when she sees the concern in his eyes. How is it that he can just continue to care so much about her, no matter what she does to hurt him?

* * *

A/N: Okay, so I lied. It really was going to be two parts, but then my ideas got away from me and, long story short, now it's three. Plus possibly an epilogue. So here's part two. Part three should be up within a few days.

Additionally, thank you all SO MUCH for your kind comments. If I could write for Teen Wolf, I totally would, and I would be in some kind of heaven, let me tell you. :)


	3. Part III

She stays home from school on Monday, lying in bed with her covers pulled up over her head. Moving just doesn't seem like an option, and she honestly doesn't want to face the prospect of having to return to school to think about Emerson and the Cold War and quadratic equations when there are much more pressing things on her mind: like the fact that a pack of werewolves almost _killed her_ last night.

"I don't want to talk to anyone," she tells her mom when Mrs. Martin comes in to check on her. "And I _don't _want any visitors."

"Not even that boy you've been seeing?" her mother asks, concerned. "You know, the tall one. Real cute, dark hair. What is his name again? Something with an 'S'..."

"Mother! I am not _'seeing' __anyone,_" Lydia snaps. "And no! I don't want to see anyone."

Later, when she comes downstairs for dinner and asks if anyone came to see her today, her mother shakes her head with a shrug and returns to her magazine.

Lydia tells herself she has no right to be even a little disappointed.

...

When she returns to school, She makes out with Aiden in the janitor's closet, mostly because she wants to erase the scent of Stiles from her skin, wants to stop replaying the feel of his lips on hers over and over, wants to be _Lydia Martin, Queen Bee of Beacon Hills High _once again, without the werewolves and druids and sacrifices. She wants to be normal again. She wants to be un-in-love.

Because she can't deny it any more. When Aiden pushes her up against the door and kisses her, all she can think is, _I miss Stiles. _Every move of Aiden's makes her ache for Stiles' touch, for the way he laughs, and how his body moves. She wants to talk to him, tell him all her secrets, keep him safe.

And just like that, she can't lie to herself anymore: she is in love with Stiles, and there's no going back.

Pushing away from Aiden with a sudden intake of breath, Lydia says, "I have to go," and practically hurls herself out of the janitor's closet. It's lunch period, so Stiles could be anywhere at this point, but she makes a beeline for the cafeteria.

He's there. Of course he's there, but he's not alone. Across from him, laughing like they're good old friends, is Amy Miller, and even though Lydia knows that girl-on-girl hate is a tool of society to keep women from realizing their own potential, she can't help hating the brunette a little bit, can't help but pick out all of her flaws and deconstruct them down to the last inch. But before she can work herself up, she lets it go, deflated, because here's the truth: no amount of hatred directed at Amy Miller is going to make Stiles forgive her; she's not really sure what, exactly, will, if anything.

As if on cue, Stiles chooses that moment to glance around the cafeteria and when his eyes focus in on her, it's as if he can't decide whether to be angry or just sad. He offers a little wave that she can barely return.

She flees, and spends the rest of lunch period in the bathroom, sobbing.

...

The text reads: _Meet at school. Need help. _

It's 9:34pm, and Lydia hasn't spoken to Stiles in three days. A year ago, this would have been nothing unusual, but these days, they hardly ever go an hour without communicating in some fashion, and she feels the loss full force.

The text sends her head spinning.

It wouldn't be so disturbing if Stiles - or Scott, for that matter - had been at school today, but as it is, neither showed up for history or physics, or English, either.

"Where could they be?" Allison whispered over half-eaten lunches. Lydia had given up pretending she didn't care because the truth was, no matter how much she had tried to push Stiles away, she could hardly deny that the boys had become two of her closest friends - that, on top of her recent revelation about Stiles, they meant something to her, that their well-being mattered.

So this text message is alarming, to say the very least, and, she thinks, perhaps not even sent by Stiles at all.

Knowing this, the most logical thing to do would be to put the phone aside and wait, search for other clues, but Lydia knows this might be the only thread of evidence she gets, so, reckless or not, she's going to follow it. She has to.

She doesn't want to call Allison - three people in danger is more than enough - but even if she might be the brains of their friendship, Allison is most definitely the brawn, and there's no way she is going into an abandoned school building this late at night without the protection of her werewolf-hunting best friend. Especially _that _school building, so prone to the supernatural as it is.

The building appears empty as they park the car and get out to survey possible entrances. Some navigation directs them to a side entrance, obviously already used by _whoever _sent Lydia that text. Just before they go charging in, Allison grabs her arm, restraining her momentarily.

"Wait," she says quickly. "Do we, you know, have a plan?"

"It's kind of hard to have a _plan, _Allison, when we don't actually know what's going on. Now, come on."

The hallways are dark and so silent, you could easily hear a pin drop, but the only sounds that echo down the hall are those of their footsteps. Then, suddenly, a shuffling sounds from around the corner, and out burst Scott and Stiles, frantic. The practically run smack-dab into Allison and Lydia.

"What are you _doing here?" _Scott demands, stopping momentarily; Stiles looks over his shoulder in terror, breathing heavily.

"Lydia got a text from Stiles. We thought -"

From around the corner bursts Derek, in werewolf form, more errant than any of them have ever seen him. Grabbing Allison's hand, Scott leads them all down the hallway and through a set of double doors, which they block with a table. It won't last long, but it'll at least hold Derek off for a moment.

"We've got to get you guys out of here," Scott says, moving quickly once more down the hall as the sounds of Derek's struggle against with the door follow them.

"Wait, Scott, no way," Stiles says, grabbing his shoulder. "We're not just leaving you here alone." Turning the corner, Scott throws open a door that leads to a set of stairs.

"Look, we all know it's me that Derek wants -"

"Um, since when?" Lydia interjects as they wind their way up the stairs. "Exactly what is happening? Why are you all even here?" Opening another door at the top of the staircase, they all exit onto the roof of the school. "Ah, well this is great. Perfect escape, really," she says, rolling her eyes.

Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Deucalion kidnapped Cora, brought her here and told Derek to meet him. Scott," he says, punching his best friend a little harshly in the arm, "decided to play the hero and accompany the pack to get Cora back."

"Long story short, Deucalion injured Cora," Scott continues, "and says the only way he'll help to save her is if Derek kills his pack. I guess he just _forgot _that I am not actually part of his pack, but after Deucalion cut his sister's throat, he kind of lost it, so I doubt he even knows what he's doing."

"So what do we do?" Allison asks urgently. "I mean, Lydia got Stiles' text, but we weren't sure -"

"Wait, what?" Stiles says. "What text? I didn't send a text."

"No," a new, voice cold interjects. "I did." The kids turn to face Deucalion, who stands a mere ten feet away, observing them with a sinister grin on his face - or at least, he would be observing them, if he still had his eyesight. As it is, he is just as menacing either way. He takes a few steps toward them as Lydia searches vainly around for a way off of the roof.

"You?" Scott asks. "But - why?"

"Don't you see, Scott?" Deucalion asks, taking another step forward. "It quickly became apparent to me that it wasn't actually Derek that I wanted but _you._"

"_Me_?"

"Yes, you see, you are quite the unusual specimen of a werewolf. By all rights, you should either be part of Derek's pack or you should be an Omega, so easy to kill that you would be long dead by now, what with all of the...scrapes you get in to. Yet, you are neither. In fact, you seem to be an Alpha all on your own. Just as strong, if not stronger, than Derek, so I want you in my pack." His grin widens a little, and the kids all shudder. "The only thing you have to do is get rid of _your_ pack."

Scott glares at him. "What does that even mean? I don't have a -" He cuts off, eyes widening as he takes in Deucalion's meaning. "Never," he breathes. "I'll die first."

"Then I will just have to start killing them myself, won't I? Who should I start with, eh? The pretty redhead?" He takes a step toward Lydia, and Stiles steps in front of her fiercely, muttering, "Don't touch her."

"Ah, a touchy subject, it seems," Deucalion says, moving away. "Well then. What about the werewolf hunter, your little girlfriend? Or the other one, little - Isaac, is it? Where is he, anyway? Oh yes... here he is." And so Isaac appears, struggling against Kali, who has a strong hold on him as she drags him around the corner and tosses him at Deucalion's feet, putting one foot onto his chest to keep him pinned down.

"Stop it!" Scott cries, stepping forward. "He's part of Derek's pack, not mine. Leave him alone!"

"So you admit it?" Deucalion asks. "You do have a pack of your own?" Scott shakes his head, remaining silent. "Which will it be, Scott? Either you kill them, or I start doing it. So which will it be?"

And then Lydia does something she hasn't done in a very long time - she gets reckless. Grabbing one of Allison's arrows, she removes herself from the group and flips around to face Deucalion, holding the point of the arrow threateningly close to herself. "The way I see it, there's just one flaw in your plan."

"Lydia, what are you doing?" Allison asks urgently.

Speaking to Deucalion again, she says, "If we kill ourselves then Scott won't absorb the power that he could get from us - which, regardless, doesn't make much sense to begin with as only one of us is actually a werewolf, but I've stopped trying to make sense of these things - and what good is he if he doesn't absorb any of that power, huh?" She pushes the arrow closer to her torso threateningly.

"Lydia, stop it!" Stiles says desperately.

"I'll do it!" she says grandly. "I'll kill Stiles, and Allison, and Isaac, and then I'll kill myself, and then Scott _will _be an Omega, and you and I both know he's useless to you then."

Scott shakes his head, taking a step toward her. "Lydia, what are you talking about?"

Deucalion, meanwhile, just rolls his eyes. "Kali, just shut her up, would you?"

And in that moment, Lydia's entire, hackneyed plan goes off without a hitch. Kali, abandoning her stance over Isaac to leap towards her, allows the younger werewolf a chance to get off the floor and, though harried by his struggle, turn werewolf with a strangled cry to the heavens. Scott, suddenly understanding the gift Lydia has just given him, follows suit, launching himself at Deucalion, who, slightly thrown by this turn of events, must take a moment to get his bearings, giving Scott a chance to launch an offensive attack rather than a defensive.

Isaac, meanwhile, leaps forward onto Kali's back, giving Lydia the chance to scurry away as quickly as possible toward Stiles, who has helped Allison climb higher onto the roof to gain a better vantage point. Allison pulls out her arrows swiftly, launching them into the midst of the battlefield to aid Isaac and Scott.

"Call the police," Lydia urges Stiles. "It's the only chance we have at scaring them off."

"Already done," Stiles answers, grinning at her. "Listen, Lydia -"

He is interrupted by the fierce howl of another werewolf joining the battle. The twins leap into battle with Scott and Deucalion, and Stiles, seeing the imminent end for his best friend, rushes over toward the action, jumping onto the back of the twins. It disorients them just long enough to get them away from Scott in order for him to reposition himself, but at a price. Ethan and Aiden fling Stiles off of their back, tossing him to the edge of the roof. Menacingly, they approach him and, with a swift kick of their left foot, throw him, screaming, from the building.

"Stiles!" Lydia screams, trying to rush forward, but Allison holds her back, turning her best friend into her comforting embrace, and Lydia sobs, unabashedly, into her arms. The rest of the battle is a blur; she remembers the whir of sirens, how the Alphas all escaped in fear of exposure; she remembers a cop carrying her down the stairs of the school building, Scott and Isaac's wounds being tended to. The next thing she knows, she is sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped tightly around her, too numb to think.

_Stiles is dead. _It consumes her; it is her only feeling, the only thing she will ever know from this moment on. He is dead, and she never got her chance to make things right between them.

But she should know by now that whatever kind of life she's living - as occasionally awful as it might seem to be - the perks of the supernatural surrounding her everyday life is that nothing conceivable is entirely impossible, and this is one of those times the impossible wins out: Because she looks up just in time to see Sheriff Stinlinski round the corner of one of the ambulances, talking to a tall, lanky boy with dark hair and big brown eyes who looks strikingly like Stiles and -

_Wait. _

"Stiles?" she says once, but it's too quiet. Tossing the blanket from her shoulders, she stands and calls, "Stiles?"

He looks over at her - _oh god, it really is him! -_ then back as his dad, who claps him on the shoulder and waves him away. He turns on his heel to walk towards her, but she is already charging towards him, throwing her arms around him in the tightest embrace she has possibly ever given.

"But, how?" she asks as she pulls away. "How did you - ?"

"Would you believe me if I said that Derek caught me?" he replies, and she lets out a very wet laugh, tears streaming down her face. "No, but seriously, he _actually_ caught me. It was really kind of- "

Before he has a chance to comprehend what is going on, she plants her lips upon his, kissing him more fervently even than he did after their brush with death in her car. He doesn't have a chance to reciprocate, and she's already pushing him away rather violently.

"Lydia!" he cries, putting his hands up in self-defense.

"You scared the _shit _out of me!" she yells, furiously wiping away the mascara that is running down her cheeks.

"I-I'm sorry." He runs a hand through his hair, licking his lips once, his eyes searching her face for the answer to a question she thinks she probably understands all too well.

"Well?" she asks after a few moments.

"Uh, well?"

"Well, are you going to stand there like an idiot," she asks, taking a step forward and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. "Or are you going to kiss me?"

It's the best first/third kiss Lydia ever experiences.

...

She leaves the crime scene as quickly as they'll let her, but of course, the adventure never really can contain itself, can it? When she pulls out the keys to her car, she feels a pair of eyes upon her back. Flipping around, she comes face-to-face with Deucalion, presumably alone, not that that fact is any kind of comforting at all.

"I'll scream," she threatens. He laughs.

"And you really think that would protect you? Lydia, was it?"

"If you kill me, Scott will kill you," she warns, taking a step back.

"I have no doubt," he says, sighing slightly. "But don't worry. I haven't come to kill you."

"Then what _do _you want?"

He pauses. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it?" he finally says. "You knew that if you started talking enough to distract Kali and I, then one of us would try to shut you up, giving Scott and Isaac the advantage of a distraction."

Lydia says nothing.

"You're rather smart for a human, aren't you, Lydia?"

"And for a werewolf, you're kind of dumb," she snaps back.

Deucalion chuckles at this. "Yes, very smart. But you play the little fool."

Lydia studies him, weighing her answer carefully. "In my experience, letting people underestimate you is sometimes the best tool you have."

He smiles, pleased at her response. "There's something else, too," he adds. "The smell of - _death _upon you." He passes very close to her, leaning in to catch a whiff of her scent as Kali appears from the shadows to offer him an arm of assistance. "Maybe it's not Scott I should be after at all." He lifts a hand, waving goodbye as he walks away from her. "Goodnight, Lydia Martin. I'm sure we'll meet again."

"I'm sure," Lydia mutters and gets into her car as quickly as possible.

...

"I'm so sick of feeling like nothing we do is ever resolved," Stiles says the next morning as he, Lydia, Scott, and Allison walk to Physics. "Just once, I'd like for us to battle the bad guys and _win._"

Scott grins. "Yeah, keep dreaming, buddy. I think it's going to take a bit more strategy than we've been using to beat these guys."

"Besides," Allison adds with her own grin, "I'd say at least _one _thing got resolved last night." She looks pointedly at Stiles and Lydia's interlaced fingers. Lydia tries her best not to blush and fails. It's odd; her relationship with Jackson never made her blush like that. She decides it might be better not to think about what that means quite yet.

"Yes, well," she says primly. "Not much thanks to you, Miss-I'll-tell-Amy-Miller-he's-free-as-a-bird." Allison lets out an indignant scoff, still grinning.

"Please. If I hadn't convinced Stiles to take Amy to the dance, you two might never have gotten together. So really, you should be thanking me."

Scott shakes his head as they approach their classroom. "I don't know. I think it was pretty inevitable."

They enter the classroom, but Lydia tugs Stiles back briefly and, pulling him down to her, presses her lips swiftly against his.

He grins as she pulls away. "What was that for?"

She smiles back at him. "Stiles, have you learned nothing? When a pretty girl kisses you, it's best not to waste time questioning her motives." Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she walks into the classroom, sliding into the seat next to Allison's.

She knows, now, that she might never have a 'normal' life again, but she's beginning to think that might be okay. After all, isn't normal entirely a matter a relativity anyway? So instead of shoes and Jackson and formals, she's creating a new normal - a normal with werewolves and druids, with stake-outs and Scooby-Doo-like clues, a normal where her intelligence, not her beauty, is what makes her valuable, a normal with Stiles, Stiles everywhere, in her car, by her locker, in her bed, a normal with fewer friends, maybe, but truer ones.

Maybe that's the kind of normal she's always been looking for.

That night when she dreams, she isn't running anymore.

* * *

A/N: Et c'est tout, mes cheries! Thanks so much for reading, and be on the lookout for my NEXT Teen Wolf fic, which will probably be Stydia, if I choose to pursue the idea that's been floating around in my head.


End file.
